Goodbye to An Old Friend

            I’m sitting here in front of this page feeling two things I haven’t felt in a long time. The first is true sadness. The second is intimidation.

            The sadness is easy to understand. I can be at times an emotional guy. I cry during sad scenes in movies- hell I cry during those medication commercials when they list all the side effects.

            The intimidation is harder to define, but understandable. I want to write something to honor you, to do you justice. To get right down to it, I want to make people that never got the opportunity to meet you, to know you, understand why I’m so sad.

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            One of my earliest memories of you is opening the door for you to come in the house. You trotted down the hall, head cocked sideways, doing your little shuffle/dance on almost comically short legs. You looked at me as if to say; Hey newb, this is the part where you get me a treat. Who was I to argue?

            I can also remember when you knocked Gretchen down a peg or two, deservedly so. A dog 3 times your size, and 4 times your weight, no less. You didn’t take shit from nobody. I had no choice but to respect that.

            After that day, I realized there was more to you than I initially recognized. At first glance you were a curmudgeonous, food glutton who’s main accomplishments were sleeping 18 hours a day and having an on again-off again affair with the pet bed. But you were also ferociously loyal to those close to you, a fun-loving goofball, who at times reminded me of a dog much younger than he.

            Over time began to see you as ageless. In fact, that’s why all of this is so shocking. Deiter never gets sick, never takes ill. He has an iron stomach, and a secret stash of youthfulness for which people would kill. Deiter is there- Every. Damn. Morning. - to get his breakfast, doing that ridiculous little shuffle/dance, with his head cocked sideways, still looking at me, reminding me; Hey nothing has changed, this is the routine and you and I are going to do this dance til the end of time- Now feed me newb.

            But then this morning…you weren’t there. I didn’t wake up to the sound of your persistent whine, or your paws-out-stretched-in-a-double-high-five-Dachshund-meerkat stance. I woke up to the realization that we had lost you...

            You were your own individual, with your own loving personality. You may have been an old man, but you weren’t the mean elderly dog that I had assumed you to be. You may have started out as my “step-dog”, but you became my “Deiter-boy”, Deiter McDeiter”, “Deiter Burriter”… Although, it took us awhile to really get know and trust each other, I think our bond was stronger because it wasn’t an easy camaraderie at first. I am proud to have known you. Even more proud to have earned the right to call you my friend.

            R.I.P. buddy you will be missed. 

Bully Part 2 of 2

           

            If you missed part one CLICK HERE

            “No can do man, early dismissal.” Phil held up a small paper. The time 2 P.M. scrawled on it, followed by his mother’s signature. “Early dismissal, dentist appointment.”

            “Oh ya,” I mumbled as I walked away, “Good luck, hoping for no cavities buddy.”

            Phillip’s words of comfort didn’t last long. By 5^th period I had fallen victim to that nervous (and particularly rank) sweat you only give off under severe stress. It slathered my armpits, back and brow.

            As 6^th period arrived, my heart raced, seemingly around my stomach, which was doing loop de loops as if I were on a roller coaster. I didn’t know what was worse, that I still had nearly two hours until my demise or that I would have to tolerate this torture until that time finally came.

            The final fifteen minutes of 7^th period was: Hell. On. Earth. At one point I was certain the hands on the clock were lurching forward, then backwards, then laughing at me as though the mechanisms were snickering instead of ticking.

            As the bell rang, I sighed heavily. Hearing the funeral dirge in my head, I gathered up my books, throwing them into my bag and went to meet my maker. 

            Slowly, I made my way outside to the back lot of the school. All around me excited children that would get to see tomorrow’s sun rise were elated to be done with another day. Inside I was pleading with myself: Find the biggest kid you can, pay him, do his homework, something!

            Despite halfheartedly searching for a savior, I had watched enough episodes of The Wonder Years to know that this was one of those things I was supposed to do on my own.

            By 3:18 I was in the prearranged spot.

            Seconds ticked by like hours. I was astounded to notice that the fear had left me, I had even stopped sweating. I looked at my camo-colored digital watch; 3:20 gave way to 3:25. Before I knew it 3:30 had arrived.

            Maybe Phil was right, Brad had balked after all!

            “Alright dickless you ready for yer ass whoopin’?”

            I turned to see Brad approaching. The bus kids were still shuffling past me in droves. Apparently, I was so unpopular no one even wanted to see me get my ass kicked. 

            Then he was there, right there in front of me. Somehow, he seemed even bigger than he had that morning. I planted my feet and stared at him, “Ya, let’s get this over with.” My voice lacked any tone that would indicate I thought I might win but I raised my fists anyhow.

            “Okay bitch,” That was the only warning I’d get. Brad reeled back and tried to muster his first punch.

            I always say; It’s better to be lucky than good (© 2017 DAVID IWRITESTUFF All Rights Reserved).

            I feigned with my right shoulder, Brad instinctually dodged, moving to his right. Then I heaved my left arm forward as hard as I could. Fist and teeth clenched, I threw that punch with everything I had, and things I didn’t even know I had. Every bit of my weight, every tear I had cried, every name I had been called was behind that left hand. And you can bet, every bully that had ever picked on me, hell every bully that had ever picked on anybody, was in front of it.

            All of it hit Brad squarely in the right temple.

            He stood there for a moment, unmoving, his eyes not registering what had happened, as though the very thoughts had been knocked from his head. 

            Then slowly the lights came back on in his eyes. Somebody was home again. Brad looked at me and saw a little fat kid standing there ready to throw another punch. I looked at him and saw something akin to a deflated balloon.

            Without speaking, Brad nodded, began to whimper, and slunk backwards, inserting himself into the crowd of kids that flowed nearby. The last glimpse I got was him cradling his head in his right arm.

            I looked around and waited for the cheers and adulation from my peers. There was none. No one cared about me vanquishing my foe. No one cared that some unknown nerd had beaten back the typical schoolyard bully.

            It didn’t matter because I didn’t do it for recognition. I didn’t even do it for them. I did it for myself and it felt remarkable.